


Changing Shape

by MerhppDerhpp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-06 12:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerhppDerhpp/pseuds/MerhppDerhpp
Summary: "Yours, Tom," she answers, and he burns like he's staring into the sun as her irises lighten to a dark brown that would match his own. "I was made for you." Her words are said like an indisputable fact and the weight of it threatens to crush him entirely.





	1. Silver

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: First story to be uploaded here on AO3, whoo. Anyway, this story isn't meticulously planned out but I have a few solid ideas, so just be aware that I haven't planned out every plot point. And also, be warned that there are some dark aspects that you may not like. Nothing too graphic, though, I don't think.
> 
> Also, putting it here since my end notes for this chapter seem to follow new chapters; the chapters are going to vary in length (though, they're likely to be short so there's less stress on my soul) and my update schedule's out of whack, so sorry about that.

* * *

 She sits on her own bed, directly across from him, her back to the wall and her heavy-lidded gaze absently focused on the floating blocks of wood in front of her. They move in a circular motion at alternating speeds and he knows that she'll teach him how to do it eventually. If he's impatient about it, he's less likely to get anything from her aside from the bland rise of a single brow aimed at him.

(Tom doesn't like it when she looks at him like that; like she's silently questioning whether he thinks it's a good idea to continue being obstinate. He _is_ a child, he _understands,_ but that doesn't mean that he appreciates being treated like one. Not by her; not by anyone.)

"Why are we different?" he finally voices the question that's been plaguing the forefront of his mind of late. She would know. Even if she logically shouldn't be any more knowledgeable than himself, she would know.

Morgan doesn't answer immediately, which isn't unusual, and he's content to wait. She's taught him the virtue of patience and its integral role in dealing with someone like her; someone who, more often than not, is lost inside her own head because she finds little importance of the things outside of it. It's likely the reason why she rarely bothers to look and sound like anything other than utterly bored.

 _"The world is rather drab right now, isn't it?"_ Her eyes, dark and unfathomable, were directed towards the sky with an apathy he can only partially comprehend. _"Especially from this angle. We're orphans that have little purpose other than to be used and abused by those stronger than us, aren't we?"_

His eyes were on her because she's always been more vibrant to look at than their surroundings. More compelling, even if it sometimes feels like getting sucked into a black hole. _"They haven't touched us yet,"_ he replied then, even as something malignant snaked its way to his chest at the thought of being treated like the other children. He sees the way the adults  ̶and even the older urchins who've yet to find residence elsewhere  ̶look at the two of them.

Tom and Morgan are both _pretty,_ with their dark hair and upturned eyes and unblemished, pale skin. (Sometimes, though, he speculates on whether that's truly her default appearance or yet another convenient disguise.) They could easily pass for siblings of nobility, yet they're still unloved and unneeded like the rest.

 _"Because we scare them,"_ was her monotonous response, gaze shifting from the sky to look him in the eyes. He barely blinked, even as the sensation of being suffocated by her undivided attention danced along his spine and spread to the rest of his body through his nerves. _"They want to break us and violate us, but the risk isn't worth it because we'd do far worse to them just for trying. The primal parts of them can recognise that, at least. Some, however, are still likely to try when they believe we're at our weakest."_

He's broken out of his thoughts when Morgan of the present finally replies with, "We possess magic and they don't." His gaze refocuses on her, taking note of how one block is on fire and another surrounded by what he assumes to be wind. The last of the blocks is speckled with drops of water, but she seems to be struggling with that particular element. Yet, none wear signs of damage. His hands twitch as his curiosity and desire to attempt it himself itches at his skin, but he refrains from fidgeting outright.

"Magic," he murmurs, trying the word on his tongue and finding it to be agreeable. "What we have is magic." It feels right. "Does that mean we're special?"

Her gaze flickers to him, and he forces himself to breathe under the pressure. He's fairly certain that she doesn't even mean to have such an oppressive stare, which is equal parts frustrating as it is fascinating. "There're others," Morgan answers, blinking at him and tilting her head as she likely takes note of his physical response. She breaks eye contact to look up at the pitiful window of their shared room. "Wizards and witches, they're called. A small percentage in comparison to the people without magic."

There's a conflicting trickle of displeasure at the realisation that there are more like them; however, at the same time, he feels somewhat mollified that the numbers are still small, regardless. Still…

"Can they talk to snakes and shift shape at will like us?" Tom queries, internally attempting to understand _why_ he needs to feel like they're more than even the magical folk of the world. Perhaps it's because he can see how there's hardly a reason to feel superior towards people who aren't even capable of magic. That, he thinks, would be akin to royalty comparing themselves to commoners. There's no need to do that because it's glaringly obvious that being royal is better than being common.

Satisfied with his own reasoning, he once again returns his attention to Morgan and her delayed answer. With an idle scratch of the back of her neck, she looks back at the blocks to find the droplets of water surrounding the third block gone. He might have felt frustrated with the lack of success, but she takes it in stride and he hopes that he won't burn all the pieces of wood in annoyance when his turn comes. It would only make him feel woefully incompetent and childish.

"You're a Parselmouth and I'm a Metamorphmagus," Morgan reveals, deciding to take a break from practising her magic. The elements disappear and the blocks float over to their shared desk when she casually flicks a finger in its direction. "Both are hereditary traits and extremely rare."

Tom smiles, the information very much welcomed. She watches him, imperturbable and otherworldly. He knows that he should question her improbable knowledge more; that he should wonder why she is the way she is and why she bothers to stay with him even though it wouldn't be hard to leave.

And it's then that he asks, "Will you stay with me, Morgan?"

It doesn't matter, Tom reasons. It doesn't matter as long as she stays. But what if ̶

(What if she decides to go? What if she decides he's not important or special enough for her to stay? What if, what if, _what if?_ )

"Don't be silly, Tom," she responds, and he feels as if his heart has been _impaled_ and  ̶ "That goes without saying." He _breathes._ "If I left, you'd likely destroy yourself and then the world. Which, I'm sure you understand, is not the path either of us would like very much. That kind of destruction upsets the forces of nature."

She bestows upon him an annoyingly endearing head tilt and a silver glimmer in her eyes that makes him scowl at her. "That _hurt,_ " he hisses, standing up from his bed to climb up on hers. The mattresses are hard and uncomfortable, but they're minimally serviceable so neither bother to complain. It's a wonder that they even have their own separate beds in the first place.

"Want to learn how to make the blocks float and spin?" she offers once he's settled in by her side. Morgan is warm as she is cold and he relishes in the feeling.

Tom scoffs, "I know what you're doing," but he doesn't decline.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

The doorknob begins to rattle softly, but Tom is awake even before that.

His eyes snap open, and the only difference he can make out in the darkness is the gleam of Morgan's eyes. Like eyes of a feline, he thinks. It should be unnerving, yet it only helps to calm him somewhat while his chest tightens as the rattling steadily becomes more aggressive.

"Is this supposed to be when we're at our weakest?" he whispers, shifting closer until there's no distance between them and he can feel her steady breaths on his skin. (He clutches her with all of his limbs, trying and failing to will away the feeling of something repulsive building in his throat ̶

He's not afraid. He's _not_ afraid.)

Morgan shifts slightly, bumping for forehead against his as her entire being remains still. Calm. Tom anchors himself to her. "Yes," she confirms with a murmur, ignoring his flinch as a frustrated kick connects violently with the door that shields them.

(He hates them. With all of his being; _he hates them._ )

"I want to leave," Tom declares, his body a mess of shivers from the rage that bubbles within him. How _dare_ anyone think that they could violate the two of them? To mistreat and shatter them until they break like Annie, who is all jagged shards of glass that can do little more than cut shallow wounds?

The disappearance of Morgan's illuminate eyes and the quiet sigh that brushes against his cheeks snaps him back to reality. "Alright," she replies. "Soon."

Tom breathes. With her, he is alive.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

When it's close to Christmas and they're to turn six soon ̶ her on the twenty-third and him on the thirty-first  ̶she asks him, "Do you want to leave now?" and he's standing before he can even fully register what she's asking. It's enough of an answer, for she turns around to make her way to the exit and he follows without question.

They don't have any belongings of importance, so they leave with nothing but the washed out uniform of Wool's Orphanage and the apprehensive, curious eyes on their back. No one stops them because no one will miss them. No one ever misses the ones who leave.

_("Where's Annie? Wasn't she meant to be here by now?"_

_"Oh… After what happened, she left. Said she'd rather die somewhere else. Can't say I blame her; that man is vile."_

_"I suppose. Well, good luck to her. Have you seen the new boy, Richard, by the way? He's rather fit, I'll say.")_

Tom exhales, attempting to calm himself but finding it difficult as elation surges within him and allows him to hear his own pulse in his ears. "Where are we going?" he breathes in question, catching up with her swift but leisurely stride and grasping one of her hands with his own. Their fingers intertwine instinctively and he feels _alive._

"Diagon Alley," Morgan answers with a yawn that she covers with the back of her free hand. "It's a wizarding area located in Charing Cross Road. We can find one of my relatives to take us in. If not, we'll make do. But I have a good feeling we'll find one."

"Alright," he utters, tightening his grip on her hand as he quickly comes to terms with the fact that he'd follow her _anywhere,_ regardless of the risks.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

He looks around, fascinated by everything and anything that moves on its own. The residents wear odd robes that vary in colours that could be obnoxious to look at for too long, but Tom notices that he and Morgan seem to be the unusual ones in the crowd.

Wizards and witches. Magical, like them; special, on some scale, like them. And yet…

And yet, as he glances at his companion whose expression is unchangingly bored, he thinks they're missing something. He feels no gravitational pull towards them; no desire to catch more than just a glimpse or to know who these unknown people are and claim them as his own.

(He's only a little disappointed, he realises. Tom doesn't want her to be like anyone else. She's _special_ and she's _his_ and _no one else can have her._ )

"What are you?" he whispers, half-expecting to not be answered immediately. He's always been willing to wait. But she stops in the middle of the street, forcing him to do the same and neither bother to acknowledge the sea of irritable people whom skirt around them like a blur.

Morgan turns to him, eyes as black as the night with a piercing voidness that enthrals and terrifies. "Yours, Tom," she answers, and he burns like he's staring into the sun as her irises lighten to a dark brown that would match his own. "I was made for you." Her words are said like an indisputable fact and the weight of it threatens to crush him entirely. "Are you mine?"

" _Always,_ " Tom promises. There is no other answer.


	2. Amber

Morgan walks with a purpose straight towards the giant building made of marble, her hand in his and the crowd seems to part for them on instinct. He thinks it must be a strange sight for children of black and grey to pave their way through a sea of colour without much effort. (But she's brighter than them all, somehow, as though she's both the darkest black and a kaleidoscope of rainbow hues.)

"There," she says, and Tom focuses on a tall, sophisticated man exiting the entrance to their destination. "Do your best to remain calm, please."

Her words give him an annoying sense of anxiety ̶ (why is that a necessary thing to say? What's wrong with him? Who is he?) ̶ but he squeezes her hand as a silent promise to try. His magic is especially responsive when he's under emotional duress, he knows, and it wouldn't do to make a bad first impression. (He doesn't care about whether people like him or not. They mean nothing to him.)

When they move closer, the man's features become more distinguishable ̶ all sharp features that are indicative of obnoxiously high breeding ̶ but the first thing that Tom notices is how his almond-shaped eyes almost immediately land on Morgan as if compelled to look at her. Tom feels himself cease to breathe as those amber eyes widen in alarm before a strangled, desperate sort of hope rises to the surface. Abruptly, the wizard comes to a stop and leans back as if unexpectedly winded as he gapes at the sight of her.

(Oh, lord, _he sees her_. He sees how special and wondrous Morgan is and he's going to try to take her away from ̶ )

Tom hisses through his teeth in a forced exhale and tightens his grip on Morgan's hand as he struggles to push down the vile, hostile emotions that claw at his insides. (He _abhors_ him. Without a name, without an introduction; he disdains this man like disdains the one who tried to invade their room in the middle of the night.)

And though she says nothing, Morgan glances at him, which makes him feel as though he's already disappointed her. "Breathe," she whispers, her mien unchanging.

He breathes and clings onto the assurance that she's not disappointed; that she's not judging him for being inadequate. (She won't leave him. _She promised._ )

"Jannetta?"

Tom twitches, and he's irritated with himself as he realises how he's unconsciously pushed himself against Morgan's shoulder like he's subtly attempting to hide behind her. But he doesn't move away. Instead, the only part of him that moves is his head as he raises to look at an awed, handsome face staring down at Morgan and Morgan alone.

(He's both irked and relieved to be treated as invisible.)

Morgan blinks, looks into this man's eyes and they both watch as he looks as though he's ready to fall to his knees. "No," she denies. "Her daughter."

The man shatters into a thousand pieces and Tom smiles with genuine delight.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

His name is Maxence Marie and he is Morgan Myriam Marie's biological father. Tom fails to understand why there's a need for such overtly alliterative names, but he doesn't voice his incomprehension. He doubts Morgan would bother to explain and Maxence would likely not even hear him. (Arse.)

Tom's mood is so sour that he can't even bring himself to appreciate how the interior of this ice cream parlour ̶ (does it truly need to be called, 'Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour'? Does the world really need to know whose parlour this belongs to from the start?) ̶ is magically made to be much larger than the exterior would imply.

Morgan offers him another lick of their shared ice cream, which he does with a mulish frown. It's nice; sweet. He doesn't know what flavour it is. It still does little to lift his mood since Maxence sits across from them and _stares_. (The way he stares at Morgan is a complex mixture of tumultuous emotions, but the fact that Tom is reminded of the adults back at the orphanage makes him want to stab something. Preferably someone sitting right across from him.)

"I could've bought two," Maxence points out with an accent on his tongue, a mild furrow to his brow as he watches the two children before him. "I still can." Is he only saying that because he doesn't want the two of them to share? Or is it simply because he's a fair soul who just wants two kids to have an equal amount?

With great restraint, Tom manages to not sneer and shatter the nearest window with his errant magic. When Morgan doesn't deign to answer for the next ten minutes or so, he becomes uneasy as he notices that her father seems to be already accustomed to her demeanour.

"We've never had it before," she finally explains, her free hand reaching over to wipe away the dab of ice cream from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He catches the dark, conflicted gleam in Maxence's eyes as she licks her thumb and that's ̶  "We might not have liked it or our stomachs might've rejected it," Morgan continues, sliding her heavy-lidded eyes towards him and raising a single brow. Tom feels as though he's coming undone. (But he'll follow her anywhere. Always.)

Maxence's frown becomes more pronounced with bemusement. "Never? Where do you live? Doesn't Jannetta ̶ " he cuts off, a haunted glaze over his eyes as he takes a moment to reorient himself. It doesn't work to fix his composure, for he meets his daughter's blank gaze and buries his face in his hands.

Tom is gratified to see the clear display of denial and grief. Morgan finishes the ice cream ̶ at his insistence ̶ with an admirable dispassion. "Nowhere, now," she replies as Maxence props his elbows on the table, face still hidden. "I'd like for you to take us in, please."

"Of course," Maxence mutters, the words sounding both like a curse and a resigned acceptance. He intertwines his fingers and places his forehead against the makeshift support, looking rather despondent and pathetic. "She… You're… Of course. For her."

"For her," Morgan repeats. Nothing in her voice changes and yet the sense of foreboding is clear.

Tom's not the only one who notices.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

"I don't like him," Tom hisses as he glowers at the back of Maxence's head. "You _know_ I don't. Must we go with him?"

Morgan stares ahead at nothing in particular as they follow their soon-to-be guardian while he finishes running errands. (Tom trusts her. _He does._ But… He's unnerved and the feeling is heavily disliked.) "It'll work out," she murmurs. It's not much of a reassurance. "He doesn't live alone. His brother makes the final decisions since he's the patriarch." That, however, is better, though only marginally so. Sometimes, she can so cryptic. He's lucky that he's familiar with it; he might've thrown something in frustration, otherwise.

He still has grievances about the situation, but not wanting to whine like some overindulged brat, Tom opts to scowl at the ground. He should question her, shouldn't he? How does she know what she does? How can she possibly know all these little details when they're the same age and have been together since infancy?

But he doesn't. (As long as she stays with him, _it doesn't matter._ ) Instead, "Your mother was like you, wasn't she?" is what he asks. Maxence mistook her for Jannetta and Tom doesn't know how to feel.

"Yes," is Morgan's easy response. "But she was meant to leave."

 _"I said I'd stay, didn't I?"_ is what he hears, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out there's a song called 'Changing Shape' by Anthony Green. It's not bad and the lyrics sort of fit with this story, so that's a nice coincidence. As a side note, I sort of imagine that Tom looks at Morgan like he's on drugs or something. Any thoughts on Tom being an angry boy would be fun to read. 
> 
> Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


	3. Garnet

Tom sits in an expensive couch, surrounded by a rich, homely interior and is being scrutinised by Morgan's overly aristocratic uncle. If not for his pride and the idea of her bland expression ̶ and the raised brow, damn it ̶ boring into his skull, he would've draped himself over Morgan in an attempt to alleviate his mass discomfort.

As it is, her hand stuck in his death grip will have to do. Maxence is, at least, someplace else in the manor, no doubt grieving over the loss of a lover or wife. (Does that man even see his daughter as something more than a representation of what he's lost? Does Tom truly want him to?) He's not sure he could handle the added stress of trying not to break something fragile.

A sigh finally breaks through the tense silence, Morgan's uncle ̶ Marcelin Marie, Maxence had said ̶ running a hand through his slicked-back hair as he leans back on the matching couch across from them. "Unnervingly unflappable," he says, his accent ̶ French, apparently ̶ stronger than his brother's. "You're almost an exact replica of your mother; she kept her hair long, though, more often than not. Maxence is going to have an unfortunate time coming to terms with this."

Morgan blinks, her eyelids lowering a fraction more to further emphasis how invested she is. She makes it seem like an art, at this point. He wonders if he'll ever be able to emulate it well.

"Of course," Marcelin huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting into something small but amused as he readjusts his glasses. "And who's the boy next to you? A sibling, perhaps?" Tom stiffens at being referred to, and a frown contorts his expression despite his best attempts to do otherwise.

"This is Tom Marvolo Riddle," she answers for him. "He's a Gaunt." Bemused, he glances at her, but she tilts her head slightly and he takes it as a silent confirmation that she'll explain later. She always does, eventually.

Her uncle raises a brow at that, looking over Tom with more purpose than before. "Half-blood? I can't imagine that any member of the Gaunt family would have a hand in his handsome features." A soft, mocking chuckle follows his words, and Tom's unsure of whether he should be insulted or not.

Covering another yawn with the back of her other hand again, Morgan replies, "Yes. His father's a wealthy muggle from Little Hangleton."

"Hm," Marcelin hums, prompting the frown on Tom's face to become more severe. Muggles, he remembers, are what the magical call the non. Morgan told him not long after their initial conversation of why they're different. "That's acceptable. It's fortunate that we're a reclusive pure-blood family; your additions won't cause a scandal."

A smile forms upon the older wizard's face, the welcoming tone of it allowing Tom to relax at the realisation of being allowed to stay.

"Thank you," he mutters, because it would be easy for them to say that they'd rather keep Morgan and leave him back at the orphanage. Not that she would allow that, but the possibility was always there, stuck to the back of his head like a parasite. (What if she changes her mind, it would whisper? What if she picks her family if they make her choose? What if ̶

She wouldn't pick them, he reminds himself. She's _his_ , and Morgan wouldn't lie to him.)

. . .

* * *

 . . .

"Curried chicken salad and with apples and raisins," chirps the odd creature that pops into the dining room with their meals. It lifts the plates with magic to set them on the table, then turns towards him and Morgan with its giant, watery eyes. It's a touch disturbing. "For the young mister and miss. Me is Pammy!"

Tom offers it an unsure smile, looking over to Morgan and finding himself unsurprised when she has no reaction to it. "Hello, Pammy," he greets it. Her? "I'm Tom. Thank you for the food."

The creature beams up at him, inordinately pleased for just being thanked. Manners, Tom supposes, is beneficial in an environment like this. Back at the orphanage, manners are scarcely used for one reason or another. Possibly because there isn't much to be thankful for, so they're more words of sarcasm than sincerity or for politeness' sake.

"It's Pammy's pleasure! Young ones must eat, yes. Much too skinny." Pammy shakes her head in disapproval. "We will fix," she promises, before popping back out of existence to leave them in peace.

Morgan picks up a fork and says, "They're called house-elves," before beginning to eat. Tom wonders if they'll be allowed to look at the library after their bath.

. . .

* * *

. . .

It's strange, Tom decides, to be in a bath that's much larger than the both of them. With the water warm and bubbles on its surface, he finds the vast difference disconcerting. He's used to a copper tub that would fit the two of them for only a few more years; the water within it cold, plain and only relatively clean. They'd take turns pouring the water over each other's head and shuffling about to scrub at each other's backs.

"It's nice," he mutters, unable to keep the undertone of bitterness out of his voice. He knows that this is where Morgan would be from the beginning if Jannetta had stayed; whereas, he'd be alone in an orphanage, surrounded by his abusive inferiors. The realisation leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Morgan hums, her eyes likely closed while he washes her subtly hue-shifting hair and back. "Marie manor is modest in comparison to others," she reveals with a sleepy drawl. "Some like to be obnoxiously obvious about their vast wealth."

He snorts at the thought. Perhaps some of the more irritating would make everything gold just for the sake of being able to do so.

Maybe once they're older and when he knows more about the wizarding world, he could get a manor just for the two of them. Something not too spacious as if they're compensating; something comfortable and _theirs._ Maybe they could buy a magical pet or two to look after; or build a giant library and a shared room suited to both their tastes.

That doesn't sound bad. First, though, he'll have to learn how this world functions and how he could make use of it.

So, he thinks, "What's a half-blood?" is a good query to begin with.

But Tom abruptly exhales, then, as the air around them begins to feel heavy and dark. (It's as though the air blackens and the hidden rainbows become blurred and murky.) She doesn't stop running her fingers through his hair, no sign of a pause or stutter at his question. (Is she mad at him? He shouldn't have asked, she's never been mad at him before, he should ̶ )

"We're half-bloods," Morgan finally answers, her distinctive monotone a familiar comfort that allows him to inhale. "It's a general term for those with muggle and/or muggle-born lineage alongside pure-blood lineage. Your mother was a pure-blood witch while your father's a muggle, which makes you a half-blood. My mother was a half-blood while my father is a pure-blood, so I too am a half-blood because one of my maternal grandparents was either a muggle or muggle-born. The idea is fairly arbitrary, though; it's little more than a system to make us feel inferior when we're anything but, in my opinion."

Nodding as he digests the new information, Tom feels conflicted on whether to voice his next question. He doesn't like the sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of upsetting her. But, he supposes, she doesn't have to answer now if she doesn't want to. She's never forced herself to answer, after all.

"What about Pure-bloods and muggle-borns?" Pure-bloods, he assumes, are those 'pure' of muggles or muggle-borns, but he'd rather get confirmation than just speculate. Muggle-borns may be witches and wizards born from two muggles, though he's unsure how that would work.

He jolts and then shivers when she slides her hands from his head down to his back. She doesn't answer.

Tom reminds himself to _breathe._

. . .

* * *

 . . .

She wears a black dress with a white collar and cuffs, looking every bit like a noble child now. Wearing the male equivalent, Tom looks in the ornate mirror with her at his side and thinks that they look like dour twins of black and white in their new clothes and recently washed skin.

Something unnameable soon fills his chest as he continues to stare at their reflection. Morgan's eyes in the mirror bore into his own and the sensation quickly heightens and suddenly, he's feeling breathless.

Intertwining their fingers together, Morgan murmurs, "You can be anything you want to be, Tom."

He faces her directly, then, but she's slower to follow his example. Tom doesn't mind. "What do you want me to be?" he whispers in return, his grip on her tightening as his stomach knots with anticipation and anxiety. What does he want her to say? (He's already hers, but he'll repeat it as many times as he has to.)

When she meets his eyes, he's falling and flying into black ̶ he's living and dying with every breath he takes ̶ and all she says is, "Better."

And so better, he will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to upload this chapter on AO3 earlier, my bad. 
> 
> Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


	4. Violet

Morgan has always had more talent with 'wandless' magic ̶ as it is so called, to her apparent displeasure ̶ than him, but he's aware that even _his_ control is considered atypical to most. Not even his new brother has such a grasp on his magic despite being four years older. (Not all that surprising, since Tom and Morgan _are_ special, but regardless; it's nice to have that fact reinforced from time to time.)

"It's mad, honestly," Matthias remarks, though without the bitterness that Tom would expect from another child. Then again, this particular one isn't like the urchins from the orphanage. It's possibly why they've been amicable so far. "I mean, the reason why most of us use wands is because we don't have enough focus or control without it. Wands provide a significant boost in that regard, right? So, wandless magic is advanced once you factor that in, but then here the two of you are; performing it at the tender age of _almost_ six." He runs a hand through his unruly, auburn hair ̶ one seemingly signature trait of the Marie family, alongside amber eyes and olive skin ̶ before continuing with, "Though, it might be a problem for Morgan later in life."

Tom frowns, turning towards the older boy with a sense of bemusement. "Why would it be a problem for her?" If anything, it should show how superior she is to others. That hardly seems like a problem in his eyes. People are more likely to leave them alone if they're wary of being bitten. And though there _would_ be those wanting her power for themselves, they could be dealt with accordingly.

The two of them look towards the gardens, where Morgan and her father are attempting to interact with some clear discomfort on the latter. The former, as always, looks as though there's nothing duller to be doing than standing there. Tom's chest surges with affection and a satisfied smirk finds its way to his face. If _he_ can't be near Maxence for fear of destroying something valuable, then he can depend on Morgan to make the man miserable in his stead.

"Well, father said that aunt Jann had trouble using her own wand because she felt like she was forcing her magic through a tiny tube." Tom glances at his adoptive brother, catching the amused smile on Matthias' face as he stares at the scene ahead of them. (If the way he looks at her ever changes into something more worrisome, then drastic measures may have to be taken.) "There's a theory that one's magic develops differently when their primary use of magic is wandless, see? Father thinks that, while wands allow us better control, it also limits us because our magic is accustomed to working more effectively with a medium rather than without."

Nodding his comprehension, Tom stares down at the unfinished project in his hands and contemplates. If what Matthias says is true, then he can understand why Morgan would have an aversion to wands. While not particularly vocal about it, he knows that she's as ambitious as he is and wouldn't be partial to the idea of willingly limiting herself. Whether she can use a wand or not, he doubts that she'll care all that much.

How would it work for him, though? Would he too have trouble using a wand? He'd like to experiment with either Maxence or Marcelin's, but he's not willing to test the boundaries of their new family dynamic just yet.

Well, Tom supposes as he rolls his shoulder, he'll just have to be patient.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

At the orphanage, whenever Christmas drew close, Tom would send out the nearby snakes to gather all the flowers that they could find. Oftentimes, they were almost weedy in appearance and fragile, but he had to make do with what he had. But now, one benefit of having a home with the imprints of a woman much like her daughter is that there's a garden full of blossoms for him to utilise.

Unfortunately, with this new change, there comes the understanding that he's been previously unaware of an entire language dedicated to flowers. Being an orphan in a lacklustre area meant that one couldn't be picky, but seeing as that's no longer the case, Tom thinks it only natural to put more effort into the whole affair now that he knows.

(What will her eyes look like when she realises the meanings of what he's chosen? Will they glitter? Gleam? What will she say? What ̶ )

"Quite the devoted one, aren't you?"

Tom looks up from the encyclopaedia of flowers to find his adoptive father smiling down with a knowing glimmer in his bespectacled gaze. Pushing down the instinctive disconcertion when dealing with adults, he furrows his brows and nods. Morgan's the one who usually interacts with them, but seeing as she's hidden away in the manor ̶ another point of unease, but he can't have her watching him while he's busy with his project ̶ his hand is forced.

"She likes flowers," he says, returning his gaze back down to the book in his lap so that he doesn't have to maintain eye contact. "I'm certain that she'll understand the meanings behind what flowers I choose, so I have to be careful." How mortifying would it be if he picked something represents hate or even lust, after all? The very thought makes his cheeks burn.

Marcelin, surprisingly, chooses to sit on the bench beside him rather continue about his day. "My late wife was also fond of flowers," he comments, prompting Tom to lift his head once again to study the man. A wistful smile graces the older wizard's face as he stares past the garden. Somehow, it makes him look younger. "She was particularly fond of yarrows as they symbolised 'everlasting love.' Jannetta, on the other hand, preferred magnolias."

Then, when no further remark on what magnolias mean is made, Tom flicks through the encyclopaedia so that he can find out for himself. Marcelin appears to be content to wait, so the silence between them is less daunting.

"'Love of nature,'" Tom murmurs, eyes skimming down the page and filing the information away. Though fitting, the size would be a tad overwhelming on Morgan. Perhaps if he shrinks them? Can he do that at his current level, or will he have to ask for help? The one time he tried to change their form, he accidentally set the whole thing on fire. (She fixed it for him, of course, before wiping away his tears of anger and shame as she advised, _"It's best if you don't try to transfigure objects for the time being."_ Then she accepted his gift without another word and wore it for an entire week.)

A soft chuckle from the man beside him throws him out of his thoughts. "Yes," Marcelin confirms, "they're of significant size. If you have a certain idea in mind, I would be glad to help. Matthias tells me of your prowess; however, I'm certain some aspects are still currently out of your reach. Morgan, much like her mother, seems to have the unfortunate habit of leaving questions unanswered until she feels like it." His smile is fond, like one thinking of the antics of a sibling.

Something uncomfortable and tight snakes its way into his chest, and Tom wonders if there's a branch of magic that allows one to look into the mind of another. "Thank you," he returns, making sure to initiate eye contact despite his mildly perturbed state of being. It can emphasise sincerity, Morgan once said. "I… appreciate it." And hopefully, it doesn't like he's saying it through clenched teeth.

Turning away, Tom thinks he'll have to go to the library after this and see whether or not a type of mind reading is existent. If there is, maybe there's also a way to block it.

It wouldn't do to have someone perusing through his mind as they please.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

"Happy Christmas," Tom whispers as he places the flower crown atop her head. Choosing which ones to use was more difficult than he expected ̶ he's had to factor in aesthetic appeal alongside their meanings, not to mention weaving the entire thing together ̶ but any sort of effort for her is decidedly worth it.

Morgan's eyes _glitter_ as she stares at him, the black of her irises rhythmically shifting between the different hue of the flowers. Lots of purple tints with smatterings of white, pink and red and it's ̶

It's _mesmerising._ Tom doesn't think he could look away even if he tried. (Why would he want to do that?)

"Happy Christmas," she returns, her hair changing into a gradient of light blues and purples. She lifts her hand, not for him to take, but for him to watch as a serpentine-shaped blur distorts and wraps around her arm and shoulder.

His eyes soon widen with shock as the blur solidifies into mixing colours to match Morgan's hair ̶ the tones shift, like waves; _like hers_ ̶ and a reptilian face hisses at him in greeting. "What ̶ "

"I made it for you," is her easy response, as though it isn't nothing short of awe-inspiring and wondrous to know that she's created a _living being_ that combines the two of them in their more symbolic forms. "Its name is Nikhil."

Tom abruptly sniffs, and he realises with dawning horror that he's on the verge of crying. But when she reaches out to wipe at his cheek, he's forced to accept that he's _already_ crying.

(Violet. Valerian. Red salvia. Blue salvia. Sage. Morning glory. White clover. Chamomile. Amaryllis. It was agonising to choose and yet, it's still not enough.)

He holds the reptile as it slithers into his hands, his grip aggressively gentle lest he accidentally crush it. **"Master is pleased with Nikhil?"** it queries, curling itself along the length of his arm as it surveys him with silver eyes. Its scales ripple with the colours of her flower crown and he wonders if it's magically connected to her. He hopes so.

**"Yes,"** Tom whispers, pushing himself as close to her as possible. He presses his forehead against hers as she calmly wipes his face. "It hurts," he mutters, his chest tight with a myriad of emotions that he can't properly identify. "Is it supposed to be like this? Why does feeling happy hurt so much?"

(Words can't express enough. Neither can flowers. Morgan is Morgan and Tom's unsure as to whether he'll ever be able to put what he feels for her into any kind of language.)

Morgan's mouth twitches, and her eyes begin to sparkle like the galaxy itself is hidden within them. "That, I don't know," is her monotonous reply.

And it's odd, he thinks, that he can imagine her seamlessly adding, _"Humans are strange creatures, indeed."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might do a time-skip thing? Or a chapter dedicated to bits and pieces as time goes by. 
> 
> Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


	5. Orange

"Every time I look at her, Mar, I see Jann. When she speaks, I _hear_ Jann. I…" Maxence interrupts himself with a forceful exhale, and Tom takes the moment to actively refrain from setting the curtains on fire. That would be compromising. "I can't help it. They're… She's… Frérot, you see it, too, don't you? How there's virtually no difference between them?"

( _"_ _Patience,"_ whispers the voice of Morgan in his mind. Tom takes a breath.)

The half-rhetorical question is followed by the clink of glass against wood and a reply of, "I understand how difficult it is to be constantly reminded of her, Max. I do. But they are not the same, I assure you; for one is your wife and the other is _your child_ . Let me say it in French for you; _ton_ _enfant_. Ta fille." Marcelin's voice is sharp and precise, yet there's the undercurrent of a threat and a plead mixing into one particular tone. "She is family and I do not condone you projecting your desires onto her in such a fashion. Jannetta is not coming back, mon frère. It's time you accepted that."

Fabric rustles as fire crackles through the ensuing silence. Tom idly pets Nikhil to stave off the urge to fidget or peek around the open study doors.

"How did you do it, Mar…?" rasps the younger  ̶and _inferior_ ̶brother. "When Noelene passed; how did you hold yourself together? How do you do so now?"

Hardly a moment passes before, "Matthias. She would not have wanted me to wallow in my grief and leave our son to raise himself." Glass clinks again as liquid pours. It'd be easier to analyse them if he could see their faces, but alas.

"Morgan  ̶" Another rough exhale. His voice grates on Tom's nerves even if it's technically pleasant. "Morgan isn't a child, grand frère. C'est une force de la nature; just as… Just as Jann was. The world itself would bend over backwards to ensure her success in life; what point is there to my existence as her father?"

(What point is there, indeed? They don't need him. Morgan doesn't need a father who can't see the value in her.)

Marcelin tuts in disapproval. "Her otherworldly nature doesn't provide you with an excuse to slowly destroy your soul like this. There _are_ other children here, I will remind you, and both are bright young men who see what you're doing to yourself. It's not beneficial to their development; _especially_ Tom's." Tom himself tenses at being mentioned, prompting him to unconsciously hold his breath in anticipation. "That boy is guarded against adult figures and the way you treat Morgan only serves to reinforce his mistrust of us. He adores her, you understand, so he doesn't appreciate your wishes of substituting your daughter for your wife. He is, of course, not alone in thinking so."

Tom sighs as Nikhil slithers around his shoulders. While he's not fond of being so seemingly transparent, he's glad that his adoptive father understands him to a degree. (It could create a tactic to gain his trust, but surely nothing bad would happen. Morgan specifically assured him by mentioning her uncle; she wouldn't phrase her sentence like she did if the man was a danger to them.)

This elicits a wry, self-deprecating chuckle from Maxence that makes Tom want to clench his fist until his palms bleed. "I _want_ her to be Jann, Mar. I want her to tell me that she's merely pretending to be a child because there's something special about Tom that prompts her to guide him in such a manner. I… I'd be happy if she told me that Tom was our child and that's why he holds her in such high regard."

The sound of fire violently surging forcing a tense, dangerous silence that wishes to asphyxiate all in its path. Surprisingly, he's not the one who causes it.

"That's a dangerous line of thought, Maxence," murmurs the Marie patriarch. The plead from his voice is missing. "You should discard it."

Tom hides a small smile as he resumes his trek down the hall. He's glad Marcelin's a reasonable adult.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

"Eavesdropping, Tom?" Morgan remarks as he approaches her.

His step falters for a moment, but she, fortunately, doesn't bestow upon him the raised brow. (Has he been conditioned to be wary of it?) "How did you know?" Not that he's surprised; he suspects it'd be easy for her to figure out to monitor his surroundings even if she's not present. The breach of privacy would be threatening if it weren't Morgan; someone whom he shares everything with.

Then Nikhil hisses, **"Nikhil is Mistress' creation,"** and the question is answered. (He ignores the abrupt bubble of glee that pops within him at the realisation that she _is_ magically connected to the colour-changing reptile.)

Tom sits down on the bench beside her, content to watch her while she watches the sky. The flower crown he made for her is still fresh atop her head, and he's curious to know how long she'll wear this one. He doesn't know where she puts them after wearing them for a specific amount of time, but the idea of her discarding the crowns he's made for her elicits a tight sensation in his stomach. It would make sense, of course, but…

"Does it bother you?" Tom wonders as Nikhil moves to nap in his lap. "How Maxence sees you, I mean?" He shouldn't be worrying about what she does with his gifts.

Morgan continues to stare at the blue of the sky and the white of the clouds. He wonders what she sees; if there's something that is invisible to everyone else but her. Can she see the stars when no one else can? Can she see the ones that fall and the ones that slowly fade into nonexistence?

She eventually responds with a dull, "No," and he's unsure of how to feel. A part of him _wants_ her to be affected by it, as though that would give him validation for how he feels. But then, how much more painful would it be for _him_ if it hurt her? If he could see her flinch and attempt to mask the pain that comes with being rejected? It'd be _unbearable,_ wouldn't it? "But it bothers you."

Tom shifts slightly. "You're not your mother," he replies, his chest tight with discomfort and annoyance as he stares down at Nikhil. "It irritates me how much he wants you to be her despite that because… Because it means that you're _unwanted_ to him and I  ̶" His fists clench on instinct, but his nails are unable to pierce flesh for Morgan takes one in her hand and lets her touch calm him. He exhales and forces himself to relax. "You're everything to me, Morgan," he whispers. "It offends me that _anyone_ would find you undesirable. Especially when it's someone who's supposed to be family."

(Once, after he learned of his father's existence, Tom asked if the man would accept them; magic included.)

Lifting his head, he finds Morgan's eyes glittering like sunlight. Her eyes shine during the day and shimmer in the night. Both pin him as easily as she breathes. "It'll work out," she promises, the words bringing him back to the first time she said it.

"Alright," he acquiesces, squeezing her hand and feeling her reciprocate. She wouldn't lie to him.

( _"No,"_ she told him. _"_ _We'd bring back bad memories."_ )

. . .

* * *

 . . .

"Is Jannetta truly dead?" Tom murmurs in question while he decides to rest his head on her shoulder. His eyes are becoming drowsy, so they should probably go inside and eat something soon. Pammy will find and scold them if they put their meals off, after all. It's mildly vexing, but they _do_ have an unfortunate habit of skipping meals because of how little they used to eat at the orphanage.

Morgan tilts her head as she watches the sunset. "I suppose."

Tom closes his eyes and absorbs the peculiar warmth she exudes. "What does that mean?" If Jannetta was well and truly dead, then the answer would be a simple and definitive confirmation. She may not necessarily be alive, though, with that type of response.

Ten minutes pass before Morgan answers with, "Only one of us can exist at a time."

She doesn't elaborate, and Tom doesn't ask her to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently been reading others' opinions on Harry Potter's magic system. Some don't like it because of how easily it can be explained by, "It's magic!" while others enjoy the mystery of thinking of it as something unrestricted by rules and limitations. I'm currently on the fence about it.
> 
> Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


	6. Navy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm still trash with schedules. I've been preparing for NaNoWriMo and I've been low-key panicking. (It's a rewrite of my other Harry Potter Tom Riddle/OC fic, just so you know. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Tom feels a familiar but much loathed sensation of intense disconcertion caused via unknown adults being within the vicinity. (It'll go away when he's older and has a wand of his own to use, he's fairly certain. After all, they're a lot less intimidating if he's as tall as they are.) But, instead of a noticeably distrusting frown, he opts for something a little more neutral and mildly curious.

"Children," Marcelin begins with an amicable smile. He waves his a hand in the general direction of his two guests and says, "I'd like for you to meet your tutors and my close friends; Isra and Amon Ajmal. These two attended both Uagadou and Hogwarts during their formative years, so I'd like to think that they'd be well suited to assist you with your magical development."

Seated in the lush lounge directly across from his father, Tom examines their features and comes to the quick realisation that they're siblings rather than a couple. (Although, one can't be too sure, considering how often pure-bloods seem to breed amongst one another. At least the Maries understand the detriments of continuous incest.) Perhaps even twins, for the way that they turn towards him and Morgan and smile in unison is uncanny.

Impressive, indeed, but no doubt unnerving. It's probably their intention, if one catches the matching gleams of mischief in their upturned eyes of hazel. The black around their eyes makes it easier with the way it almost forcefully brings one's attention to them.

"Hello," Tom greets while Morgan yawns. He doesn't particularly like the way that he's being so blatantly scrutinised, but he hopes that his opinion isn't so obvious.

The female of the pair leans forward, then, her expression becoming more devious than what's comfortable. She's a woman he would describe as aggressively beautiful. With beige skin, bold makeup, windswept curls of chocolate and navy robes accented with gold; Isra Ajmal looks like the kind of woman that could dominate the world with relative ease.

When she smiles at them with pristinely white teeth, Tom struggles to mask his grimace. She knows she's intimidating and she has little care for anyone who's bothered by her presence. If anything, it's as though she's silently daring anyone to challenge her for her own entertainment.

Tom can respect that, he supposes. It doesn't mean that he likes being on the other side of such a person, however.

(What will Morgan look like when she's an adult, he wonders? Perhaps he'll ask Matthias if there are any photos of Jannetta around that he can use as a point of reference.)

"Sister, please," says the brother, who, in contrast ̶ despite matching his sister to the point of abnormality ̶ exudes an aura that is much calmer and less overtly dominating. "I've told you before that your smile scares even grown men, let alone children. Cease." Then, he lifts the teacup in his hand to take a graceful sip.

Isra's smile becomes more amused than challenging as she leans back and breaks eye contact to let Tom breathe. "My bad, Tom," she apologises as she picks up a biscuit from the tray on the coffee table. "I've been hearing all sorts of interesting tidbits from your father, so I wanted to test your mental fortitude."

Tom glances at Marcelin with a mild frown, but the bespectacled man merely hides a smile behind his teacup. "That's alright," he eventually replies, shifting his gaze to Morgan as she stares into the distance, completely uninterested in their surroundings. The sight makes his lips twitch with mirth. "If I may ask; how did I do?"

"Well, I won't be surprised if you become a prominent figure in the future," Isra remarks, and Tom only just realises that neither of them seem to have strong foreign accents. "I approve of your student, brother. He'll do well."

In response, Amon's gaze slides over to Morgan ̶ to assess her, most likely ̶ who diverts her attention from the window to make eye contact. The former raises a slight brow and blinks, while the latter tilts her head slightly and stares into his soul.

"Well, isn't that unsettling?" he murmurs with a thoughtful hum, sounding rather the opposite of unsettled. "Tell me, Morgan; how would you describe mankind?" Amon takes another sip of tea, then, his eyes taking on a sharper, more calculative edge as he watches the enigma that is Morgan.

While Tom feels a slight frown tug at his face in bemusement, Morgan merely blinks and replies, "Self-destructive." (And the air around them feels like it shifts and gains weight with every syllable.) "Am I in the stars, Amon Ajmal?"

At this, the twins smile together in apparent approval while the male of the pair says, "You already know the answer to that, no?"

Then, without another word, Morgan returns her attention to the window; the world around her ignored once more.

. . .

* * *

 . . .

Maxence is threatened by the Ajmal twins, Tom realises. He manages remain composed when they pass one another in the hall, of course, but they smile at him in their predatory manner and his fingers twitch as he gives a tense smile in return. It's as curious as it is immensely satisfying.

"Do you think there was another reason for making the Ajmal twins our tutors?" Tom queries, half-expecting an answer and half-not. His brother is certainly more talkative than Morgan, but he can be just as elusive by occasionally going off on a tangent about something else entirely. It's something that Tom thinks he does on purpose, more often than not.

Matthias swallows the bite of the apple he's been chewing on before replying, "One aside from the fact that they're father's close friends and actually capable of tutoring you and Morgan in the art of both wand and wandless magic?"

"Yes." Obviously.

"Well, then." The older boy leans back into the lounge as he turns the page of the book in his lap. "Perhaps it's just an added bonus that they're sufficiently petrifying in uncle Max's opinion. He wouldn't be the first, you know. Aunt Isra and uncle Amon don't stand for slights directed towards their person. You should hear some of the stories about what they got up to in school; Slytherins, through and through, yet they wore blue."

Tom taps his fingers against the library desk in thought. It's possible, of course… Perhaps he simply wants to believe that his father is devious enough to add what could be called extra security. (It still… makes him uncomfortable to realise that he _does_ see Marcelin as some kind of father figure. He's never had one before, after all. What if he betrays him and Morgan, his paranoia whispers?)

Running a hand through his hair, Matthias then says, "But, you understand… Father probably _did_ count on the two of them to be some kind of deterrent." A tired sigh escapes him and he takes another bite of the fruit in his hand before murmuring, "Uncle Max is regressing, I think. Not that he made much progress in the first place, but… It's a shame."

"Yes,"  Tom drawls, satisfied despite the likelihood of confirmation bias coming into play. "It's a shame, indeed."

(The paranoia is quietened once he reaffirms that Morgan wouldn't lie to him.)

Matthias gives him a knowing smile and says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make this longer, but then you'd all be waiting for even longer and I'm supposed to be chilling the fuck out with chapter length. Oh, well. Here's some random trivia; Amon and Isra were originally meant to be for a Marauder's Era fic where Sirius already likes the OC and needs to process such horrors. As it is, I once tried to sync my OneNotes and the tab for that particular idea was sent to the abyss. I'm still salty, so here they are.
> 
> Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.


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